A King's Ransom

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Marie sorrowed greatly for Henri, just as I mourn for her. It is a hard thing to lose a child, as you well know, dearest. I did not expect to outlive six of my children. I can only be thankful that I still have you and Richard and Leonora. . . .” She paused then, her gaze resting for a long moment upon her youngest before saying, “. . . and John.”

  Even though she’d made John’s name sound like an afterthought, Joanna did not doubt she’d fight to gain the crown for him should Richard die without a legitimate heir, as now seemed more and more likely. She understood why her mother would prefer Johnny over Arthur, still residing at the French court, but she wondered if she’d prefer him to her other grandson. Otto was like Richard in many ways—courageous in battle, reckless at times, impulsive, sharing a love of troubadours and music and poetry. But Joanna thought he lacked the political shrewdness Richard had inherited from their father. Johnny was cleverer than Otto. Yet he was also less trustworthy, caring naught for honor or moral boundaries. Which were the greater flaws in a king? She was about to raise that question with Eleanor when a servant entered the solar and murmured a few words in Richard’s ear.

  “We have a surprise guest soon to arrive,” he announced, deflecting their curiosity with an enigmatic smile and a shrug. He’d gotten to his feet and the others did the same, seeing that he intended to return to the great hall.

  Joanna had risen, too, but before she could follow after Eleanor, she was intercepted by her sister-in-law. Drawing her back into the window-seat, Berengaria said softly, “I must ask your forgiveness for not being with you during your lying-in.”

  Joanna knew full well why Berengaria had not attended Raimondet’s birth, and she said swiftly, not wanting the younger woman to have to offer an excuse that would salvage her pride but prick her conscience, “There is no need to say more, and for certes, no need to make apologies. You are as dear to me as any sister could be, Berengaria. Do you not know that by now?”

  “You are no less dear to me,” Berengaria said, grateful beyond measure that Joanna had not been hurt or offended by her absence. “And this I promise you, Joanna . . . that I will be present for the birth of your next child.”

  Joanna smiled. “In that case, sweet sister, I would suggest you keep August free.”

  Berengaria’s brown eyes widened. “So soon?” she exclaimed, and then, fearing that Joanna might take her words amiss, she hastily embraced the other woman, kissing her on both cheeks and declaring, “I am so very happy for you!”

  Her outcry had attracted attention. Seeing that they all were staring at her, Joanna sent an unspoken query winging her husband’s way, and when Raimond nodded, she said, “We were not going to announce it yet, but I see no reason to hold back. We have truly been blessed by the Almighty, for I am with child again.”

  The response was predictable. Joanna was kissed by her mother, had the air squeezed out of her lungs by Richard’s exuberant hug, and was warmed by the genuine pleasure with which her news was received, while Raimond found himself fending off jests from the men, for two children in two years of marriage offered an opportunity for bawdy jokes that few of them could resist. Raimond took it good-naturedly, denying that he’d needed a love potion and insisting that, rumors to the contrary, he and his wife did not spend all of their time in bed.

  Even though neither Joanna nor Raimond seemed perturbed by the teasing, Berengaria did not trust male humor and she did her best to keep the conversation from deteriorating still further by asking if they’d chosen a name for their baby.

  “I leave that to Joanna,” Raimond said blithely. “I have to, since she says I am not to be trusted in such matters. I ask only that she not name any of our sons William, for it is bad form to call a child after a former husband.”

  “Or a former wife,” Joanna shot back. “So we’ll be naming no daughters Ermessinde or Beatrice.” She added with a sly smile, “I’d also exclude the names of former concubines, but I fear we’d run out of female names if I did that.”

  Her sally was greeted with laughter and several of the men looked at Raimond with renewed respect, for a long list of bedmates was a testament to a man’s virility, all the more so when it came from the man’s own wife. Berengaria could not imagine joking in public about Richard’s bedmates, or in private, either. But as she caught the look that passed between Joanna and Raimond, one that was both affectionate and smoldering, she felt the last of her misgivings fade away. She still did not understand how Joanna could be so happy with a man who took such pleasure in provoking the Holy Church, yet she no longer doubted that it was so. And it occurred to her that, as unhappy as Richard made her at times, she’d have been far more miserable had it been her fate to wed the Count of Toulouse.

  WORD HAD SPREAD THROUGH the hall that Richard was expecting an important visitor, and speculation was running rife by the time noise out in the bailey heralded his arrival. There were loud gasps as he strode through the doorway. He was in his early thirties, as dark as a Barbary pirate, with a raffish charm and the confident smile of a man accustomed to making high-stakes gambles and winning them.

  “The Count of Boulogne!”

  There was no need to announce him, though, for Renaud de Dammartin was known on sight to many of them. He was as controversial in his way as Raimond de St Gilles, although for very different reasons. Renaud had been a childhood companion of the French king, a bold and talented battle commander who’d made an advantageous marriage to one of Philippe’s Dreux cousins. As a young man, his father had instructed him to serve the Angevin king, and he’d shown surprising loyalty to Henry, staying with him until his death at Chinon. He’d soon regained Philippe’s favor, though, and some said that what happened next was done at Philippe’s suggestion, or at the least, with his complicity. Renaud had put aside his Dreux wife and then abducted one of France’s greatest heiresses, Ida de Lorraine, the twice-widowed Countess of Boulogne, granddaughter of King Stephen and cousin of the Count of Flanders. By this forced marriage, Renaud became one of Philippe’s most powerful vassals—and so his appearance at Richard’s court created a sensation.

  He was given a very enthusiastic reception by the men, who were excited by such a high-level defection. Moreover, Will Marshal, Morgan, Baldwin de Bethune, and several of the other knights greeted him as a comrade in arms, for those who’d shared Henry’s last days shared, too, a sense of solidarity similar to that found on the battlefield.

  The reaction of the women was different, for many of them were great heiresses in their own right. After the annulment of her marriage to the French king, Eleanor had nearly been ambushed and abducted twice by lords eager to gain Aquitaine by forcing her into marriage. Joanna had feared that this would be her fate during her confinement in Sicily. Denise and Hawisa and Isabel Marshal did not need much imagination to envision themselves in Ida de Lorraine’s plight had they been less fortunate. Berengaria was repelled, both by the act and the man himself. But she’d learned by now that a queen could not indulge her emotions, and she joined Eleanor and Joanna in dutifully making Richard’s valuable new ally welcome.

  Renaud was the guest of honor at dinner and the entertainment that followed. He had an eye for beauty and made his admiration for Joanna rather obvious, to Raimond’s equally obvious amusement; he had every confidence that his wife was fully capable of dealing with Renaud de Dammartin. Joanna enjoyed flirting and marriage had not changed that, but she was not going to engage in that pleasant pastime with a man who saw a wife as a possession to be acquired by any means possible. Far from a fool, Renaud soon realized that the Countess of Toulouse’s flawless courtesy held the faintest hint of mockery, and that made her all the more desirable, for he loved a challenge. He’d merely been amusing himself, though. He would not only admit he was reckless, he took pride in it. However, he was not mad enough to attempt a serious seduction of the sister of his new liege lord, the English king.

  He passed the rest of the evening discussing battlefield tactics with Richard, impr
essing the younger lords like Otto and William Longespée with his swagger and swapping memories with the men who’d shared Henry’s death vigil with him. Inevitably, the talk turned to Richard’s miracle, for even his enemies marveled that he could have constructed such a formidable, innovative castle in just two years.

  Richard soon discovered that Renaud was quite knowledgeable about Castle Gaillard, for the French were keeping it under close surveillance. Renaud had even heard of the episode of the blood rain, in which the castle had been splattered by a sudden shower of red rain. “Most men would have seen that as a portent of coming calamity,” he said. “How did you keep the workers from panicking, sire?”

  “I told them that it was not an ill omen, but rather one that foretold victory, that it signified the blood of our enemies. No offense,” Richard said dryly, “but I predicted it would be French blood.”

  “No offense taken,” Renaud said, just as dryly. “Of course, the French king chose to see it as a sign of God’s anger with the Angevins. He is very irate about your new castle, my lord, wrathful that you’d dare to build it on the border of the French Vexin. He sees that as a deliberate provocation.”

  “I would hope so,” Richard said, so nonchalantly that Renaud grinned.

  “I do not doubt that it has given him some sleepless nights, for he often rants about it, cursing you and vowing to destroy the castle. He swears that he would take it if its walls were made of iron.”

  Richard leaned back in his seat and, as his eyes met André’s, he murmured, “He makes it too easy. It is like spearing fish in a weir.” He signaled for silence then, for he wanted all in the hall to hear what he was about to say. The more men who heard, the more likely his words would reach the ears of the French king.

  “Count Renaud has just told me,” he said loudly, “that the French king is boasting he would take Castle Gaillard if its walls were made of iron. Well, I could hold it if its walls were made of butter.”

  SOON AFTER OTTO HAD returned to Poitou, he received an urgent summons from his uncle. He rode fast, reaching Richard’s new manor on the Île de Andely on a cool April afternoon. He was surprised to find the Bishop of Lincoln seated beside Richard in the great hall, for he knew Hugh d’Avalon was out of favor. That past December, Richard had demanded that the barons of England provide him with three hundred knights to serve in Normandy. Hugh alone had balked, insisting that the church of Lincoln did not owe military service to the king beyond the borders of England, and Otto knew that Richard had been infuriated by the prelate’s defiance. Yet here they sat in perfect harmony. He wanted to know how these two strong-willed men had resolved their differences, but he had to wait until later that afternoon to have his curiosity satisfied.

  They were standing by the open window in the solar, gazing across the river at Richard’s “fair daughter.” A soft rain was falling and the ramparts of Castle Gaillard were wreathed in ghostly grey mist. To Otto, it looked as if the citadel were floating upon clouds, a place of magic and majesty, one that would never fall to the scorpion on the French throne. As he glanced over at his uncle, he was sure that Richard was thinking the same thing.

  When he asked about Hugh’s presence, Richard shook his head admiringly. “That man is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. He fears nothing, not even an Angevin king’s just wrath. When he arrived at the castle, I was about to hear Mass in the royal chapel with the Bishops of Durham and Ely. I was in no mood to bid him welcome, and when he approached and asked for the kiss of peace, I ignored him. But he persisted, declaring I owed it to him since he’d come such a great distance to see me. I told him he deserved no kiss from me. Do you know what he did next? He grabbed my mantle and actually dared to shake me, saying he had the right to the kiss and would not take no for an answer. I could not help myself, began to laugh. So he got his kiss of peace and I forgave him, for courage like that must be rewarded.”

  Otto smiled, for he, too, respected courage. “Why did you send for me, Uncle? Has that French weasel stirred up more trouble?”

  “The trouble does not come from the ‘French weasel’ this time, but from your homeland. Count Emicho of Leiningen sought me out a fortnight ago; you’ll want to speak with him later. Some of the princes convinced Philip of Swabia that he ought to make his own claim for the German throne, and they elected him as King of Germany in Erfurt last month.”

  Otto did not know Philip, for he’d lived in England and Normandy since he was five years old. He did not doubt that Heinrich was burning in Hell with his other two brothers, both of whom had been murdered, one by the husband of a woman he’d raped. From what he’d been told, though, Philip, the youngest, shared neither their cruelty nor their contempt for the rule of law, the only Hohenstaufen prince without blood on his hands or his conscience. But that did not mean Otto wanted to see him as the next emperor; his loyalty was to his elder brother.

  “I am sorry to hear that, Uncle. But the Archbishop of Cologne and the Rhineland princes will still support Henrik, surely?” And he was dismayed when Richard shook his head again.

  “Henrik is still in the Holy Land, and they believe they dare not delay until his return to Germany. They need a candidate to oppose Philip now, and it looks as if it is going to be you, lad.”

  “Me?”

  Otto sounded so incredulous that Richard smiled. “Why not you? Your father was the Duke of Saxony, your brother is the Count Palatine thanks to his marriage, and you have a generous patron in the English king, one willing to spend whatever it takes to secure your election. You have the blood, you have the backing, and I’ll see to it that you have the money.”

  Richard laughed then, utterly delighted by this unexpected turn of events. “Heinrich’s corner of Hell has just gotten hotter. And can you imagine Philippe’s horror when he hears that my nephew will sit on the throne of the Romans? Our alliance will guarantee that he never draws another easy breath.”

  When Otto remained silent, Richard gave him a quizzical look. “You do want to be emperor?”

  Otto hesitated. He loved being Count of Poitou. He loved Poitiers, which had fine wine and pretty women and a mild climate. He loved his uncle, who’d treated him as if he were a son. He thought of French as his native tongue and thought of the Angevin domains as home. Germany was an alien land to him now; even its language sounded foreign to his ears. But who could refuse an imperial crown?

  “If it is God’s Will, then of course I will accept, Uncle.”

  OTTO WAS ELECTED as king of the Romans in Cologne on June 6 and crowned in Aachen on July 12, while his rival for the German throne quickly made an alliance with the French king against Richard, Otto, the Archbishop of Cologne, and Baldwin, the Count of Flanders.

  ON SEPTEMBER 6, the Count of Flanders and the Count of Boulogne invaded Artois and laid siege to St Omer. Philippe promised the citizens that he would come to their rescue by the end of the month, but he soon found himself fighting a war on two fronts and Richard kept him so busy in Normandy that the city would eventually surrender to Baldwin and Renaud on October 13.

  IN EARLY SEPTEMBER, Philippe led a raid into the Norman Vexin and burned eighteen towns. Richard had only sixty men with him and hastily sent for reinforcements as he kept the French army under surveillance. As soon as he was joined by two hundred knights and Mercadier with a band of his routiers, he launched an attack. The French were looting and were caught by surprise, suffering many casualties as they fled toward Philippe’s castle at Vernon. Richard’s men captured thirty knights, forty men-at-arms, and thirty horses, and inflicted another wound to the French king’s reputation. But the war continued and took on an even greater savagery, with both kings ordering the blinding of prisoners, each one blaming the other for initiating the mutilation and thus forcing retaliation. Those caught in the middle of this firestorm of hatred knew only that Normandy had become a bloody killing field where Death held dominion, not the kings of England and France.

  GUILLAIN DE L’ETANG HAD been very busy on his sovereig
n’s behalf, having been part of the diplomatic mission that Richard sent to Germany and then dispatched to Rouen. After that, Richard gave him some time off to visit his own estates, and he did not rejoin the king until September 28 at the border castle of Dangu, the day after Richard had made lightning attacks upon Philippe’s castles at Courcelles and Boury, taking them both by the time the sun had set.

  Guillain found his king in a good mood and assumed it was due to such easy victories. But from Morgan, he learned that Richard had also gotten very welcome news from Toulouse; his sister had given birth to a healthy baby girl, named after her mother.

  Guillain was pleased; Joanna was a great favorite with her brother’s knights. “It is always a happy time when a baby is born,” he said, and for a moment, he and Morgan shared the same sad thought—a heartfelt regret that Richard’s queen could not have been as blessed as Joanna. “I am sorry I could not take part in the capture of Courcelles. I missed the action at Vernon, too, so it has been too long since I’ve had a chance to clout someone. Life gets boring when it is too peaceful,” Guillain grumbled, only half in jest. But he brightened when Morgan assured him that a patrol was about to be sent out. “I volunteer! Who is leading the patrol?”

  Morgan grinned. “Need you even ask?”

  RICHARD WAS RIDING his new Lombardy stallion, a silver-grey destrier called Argento who was so fiery-tempered that the other men took care to keep their distance. They’d not gone far when they spotted dust clouds on the horizon. Richard dispatched Mercadier and a local knight, Sir Henri de Corni, to investigate. They were soon back with unexpected news.

  “The French king has left Mantes, sire, and is marching north with a large force. I’d say about three hundred knights, as well as men-at-arms and the local levy.”

  Richard was startled, for the most logical assumption was that Philippe meant to confront his army at Dangu, but the French king avoided battles the way people shrank from lepers. “I suppose he thinks he may be able to catch us by surprise.” Telling Mercadier to return to Dangu and align their men along the bank of the River Epte, he said the rest of them would track the French force. They then faded back into the woods to wait.